If thou truly wishest to know, remain.
But stay not if thine interest in reality be feigned. Most are thus. Time hath I none for matters such. Leave thou canst if fable thou dost prefer. I shall ‘st not bar thy path. But ere thou dost depart. Hear this. If else there be nothing, heed this.
I did not the deed thou believest I do.
The tale is more tangled twist of turn. If thou truly wish to hear. Very well. It be thus:
Many a moon ago, in the deeps of winter snow, I wedded Blizzard�s sire when I be but a maiden, too green to discern between the flurries of love and the pangs of lust, or the shades in the betwixt. In those days, a maiden with child outside the bond of matrimony would’st outcast be, deem’d unfit for polite society. Shunned by kith and kin, with nary a hope for redemption. Such stern judgment! Such a blight!
My sire dids’t insist upon the union. The King, he had scarce choice. A scandal would have spread like the wildfire of Arcana – through the realm, tarnishing the royal reputacioun.
Thus, wedded we be. A subdued affair it wer’st, lacking the grandeur due such an occasion, held within the castle’s grand hall, with only the courtiers to bear witness, and the Almighty to preside.
My mother did attend and tear she shedest; my sire, absent he be. He claimed the sight too painful to bear. That was the last I see of them, my parents. Their decree final it be.
The babe within me survive past birth not.
I mourned the love that might’st have been and the child I knew not. And I grieved for the girl who lost her babe and her innocence too.
Worse trials awaited thus.
As thou might imagine, Blizzard held affection for me not. And in truth, the circumstance that be, could I blame her? Our ages were nigh the same. In another world, perchance, comrades we might be.
Her beauty trouen be.
But what worth hath beauty when, in sooth, one’s heart is as black as night?
Our early days be filled with strife. She bore resentment for her inattentive sire and his youthful bride. I, meanwhilst, felt a stranger in this grand world, where silver goblets replac’d the humble clay cups of my youth and golden threads adorned the laden cloths.
The king, oft absent, remained to me a mystery.
The courtiers, too, looked upon me with nowt but disdain, able to fathom not how such a simple maiden be found amidst such splendour. Whether jealousy or mistrust drov’st them, it mattered not. Their whispers only deepen’d my isolation thus.
I an outsider be.
Indeed, I surround’d by all the world’s treasures be. Some might call it good fortune.
But hark:
What worth do riches be when one’s heart is laden heavy?
Now, the crux, if thou art still with me.
Heed thei!
My solace in reading be, and in time after, writing. But reading, my undoing it be. The castle, during the witching hour be cold and silent, offering no comfort from the encroaching solitude. Luna’s glow seemed only to cast my isolation in sharper relief.
Slumber elusive be.
Thus, I took to writing, a balm for my wounds, ensconced in the window seat, with the night’s breeze as my only companion.
This becom’st my ritual. And ere long, my obsession.
The night, my sanctuary; the day, my resting time. I could slip into the kitchens and sup unseen, free from eyes that pry Unseen, save for the ever-watchful Blizzard.
One night remains searen into memory. A burdensome moment.
A night overcruel.
The sun tarried, casteth the heavens in deep reds. As night took holden, the moon glow’st with nervous light. Bineth my window, two figures emerg’d from the shadow of ancient oak, their forms be melden in intimate embrace.
Blizzard I ben thurghknowe immediately. The man, however, I known not. Curiosity drove me to lean to further . Our gazes met benith the blood-red moon. Hatred I beholden.
Thou art curious, I wager, about the turn of events that be next-honde.
The mirror, aye, it exist’d. By the heavens, it be. But not as thou hast been led to believe. Nothing ever be truen.
First fruit, the mirror serv’d as a portal, a means to thinken and reflecten. In time, my confidant it be. Speaking to it maketh my thoughts aloud, as though a sister cometh.
Seclusion warpen a mind, bending it into uncustumable shapes. Vanite and the quest for inner truth blur often in the eyes of many. Especially when it, a woman be.
One week after all, a man cometh, mayhaps Blizzard’s lord, though I can’st say for certain-sure. He rapped upon my door with force. of hond.
“The maiden is’t gone, and her blood layeth upon thy hands,” he declare’st for all to hear. Though I knew not of what he spoke, a chill foreboding settled upon me. Evidence be found, and I be deem’d of guilt.
And there after, a heart be found, buried in fresh earth benith my window.
Blizzard, the radiant merimaiden, had vanished out of the sights. There was a body not, so prosecuten they could not. Yet, stilleth judged I be. By townsfolk, by my husbond, and in time last, by tales told to children.
The absurd tales grow’st, each more fantastical than the last install: tales of gnomes, talking trees, an evil queen, and a curs’d apple. Such mafflen.
But heed this, if nought else:
Heed this!
Blizzard elop’d with the huntsman.
And I, alas, was but a pawn in a game of lover’s chess.
Believe in truth or do not.
Wonderful story, you absolutely nailed the vernacular of this world and period. I was picturing the Huntsman movie as I read this. Loved the confidence in the last line, believe in truth or do not. Stellar work!
Thank you so much for reading! Bit of a weird one I think but I had fun with messing around witht he language 🙂